


You Always Stand Up

by astrapoetica



Series: Steve Rogers Keeps His Socks On When He's Making Whoopie [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 10:11:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10488489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrapoetica/pseuds/astrapoetica
Summary: A lead on Rumlow sends the Avengers to Lagos and straight into the events of Civil War. Plus Natasha tries to tell Steve her secret, but it doesn't go as planned. Sequel to: Steve Rogers Leaves His Socks On When He's Making Whoopie.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Very Romanogers Civil War Part I, told from Steve's POV.

Steve Rogers: "I don't know. Family, stability... The guy who wanted all that went in the ice 75 years ago. I think someone else came out."

Tony Stark: "You all right?"

Steve Rogers: (looking around at Avengers headquarters) "I'm home."

~

Looking back on it, he feels like it really shouldn't have been so easy to fall into a routine of casual sex with someone. Growing up Steve had always imagined something far more traditional when he envisioned a romantic relationship. It sounds strange to admit in this fast-moving modern world he's found himself in, but he always thought he would go the traditional route. He imagined courting someone slowly, gauging their interest, a few casual dates to movies or Coney Island, then eventually marriage and sex after that. And maybe children if he ever found time for it.

At times he lies to the Avengers about it, but he realizes that even in the 1940's people did indeed engage in casual sex. There was a reason why visiting soldiers were warned about "Victory Girls" when they landed in Europe. And when they were off on leave he knew that more than one of the Howling Commandos had fallen into bed with a girl or two. With his good looks and charm, Bucky had probably had more than one or two, although contrary to popular belief he mostly kept his dalliances under his hat.

But it just never sat quite right with Steve, especially after he had fallen in love with Peggy. Wasn't it disrespectful to be with a girl for a night and then leave, never sure if you had left a child behind that you would never know about? Wouldn't it haunt you?

Natasha definitely doesn't seem to feel disrespected by their current arrangement, even though they're keeping it a secret for now. He isn't quite sure what label to use for their relationship. He's heard the word "friends with benefits" tossed around enough by Sam and Clint to imagine that's the word that fits them best, but he doesn't like to think it applies to them. So he's left without a word for what they are and malingering doubts about the respectability of what they're doing. But those doubts definitely aren't enough to stop him the second time around. Or the third. Or the fourth. Or the... you get the picture.

What it boils down to is that it's just not what Steve imagined for himself. He knows intellectually that other people have casual sex and he's alright with that. But he's less than comfortable with being in that kind of relationship himself. He had definitely wanted to do the right thing by Peggy, which at that time meant a long courtship and marriage. In the world he's woken up in, he's not quite sure what the right thing is anymore. Ultimately he thinks it means being the right kind of man.

All he knows for sure is that he certainly never wants to be like his father. Skulking around sketchy bars until three am, then staggering home stinking drunk only to scream at his children and beat his wife. Never working a regular job, and blaming his poor fortune on a general hatred of the Irish in New York.

It seemed as if his father's work ethic had disappeared with the war. When Steve was young, he had overheard the neighbors in their Brooklyn tenement talking about how he was once a handsome war hero. And that was the story Steve repeated, even when he found out it was a lie. "What a shame," the women would cluck, hanging their washing up in the courtyard to dry. "That poor Sarah Rogers. Who could have known when he came back that he would be..." they would turn, looking around themselves and lowering their voices, "That he would be _that way_ when he came back."

Shell shock is what they called it back then. But even though they had a word for what happened to some soldiers in the face of the death and gore of the battlefield that didn't automatically mean that people understood what it was. It was clear from the way his neighbors talked that whatever had happened to his father, it was his own damn fault. The words "coward" and "too weak to handle it" were never spoken aloud, but the implication was pretty clear.

And then when Steve came along, too small and frail and always in ill-health, it was like everyone knew the reason. Like he was some sort of physical manifestation of Ian Rogers's shameful unmanliness.

No wonder his father had never seemed to like him that much. After that there were no more Rogers children, and Steve grew up watching from beneath the kitchen table or wherever else was convenient to hide as his father took out his rage and frustration on his wife. During the day he tried to help his mother as best as he could, following her around as she cleaned buildings and lending a hand if he had the strength to do so. He was baffled by her ability to take a hit and keep on going. The one and only time he asked her why she wouldn't just lay on the floor and let him have his victory, she told him "Because, and you listen close, you always stand up Steve Rogers."

That didn't make much sense to him at the time. It seemed like all his father wanted was for her to stay down on the floor, and he couldn't understand why she would stand up and make herself a target. But it left a clear impression on him about what a man should and should not be. He vowed when he grew up that he would be respectful and kind to women, and that he would never let himself succumb to something as cowardly as "shell shock."

~

"We have incoming!"

Sam's voice is a harsh exclamation in his earpiece as Steve races around the corner of the building, hearing explosions ring out above him. He looks up the length of the tall city building, seeing Sam circling in his Falcon suit, taking out a helicopter that had started shooting at them. The helicopter turns, circles, and crashes loudly into the building, fire raining down from above. Steve raises his shield, letting debris bounce off of him.

Screaming civilians stream out of the building, and smoke pours out behind them. They are rapidly losing their grasp on this situation.

"Wanda! Where are you?" Steve demands.

"Right behind you," she says, and he turns to see her flying in, arms upraised and a red glow enveloping her hands. She lands a bit shakily, but keeps her stance strong. With her arrival the debris and the helicopter start magically rising up, making a safe landing on a nearby rooftop and preventing a near catastrophe.  


He grins at her, pleased at her progress. They've been drilling her with information on battle tactics and civilian protection, and he's happy to see that she's responding so well to her lessons. "Neat trick," he says.

She returns his smile, and he is struck again by how young she looks. She isn't even wearing a uniform, just a dress and a jacket. She's wearing Kevlar underneath, reinforced by Stark tech to be virtually indestructible and bullet proof, but you can't tell that just from looking. He can't help but think that if he was a bad guy, he would go straight for her first. "Thanks," she says.

He shoves away dark thoughts of something happening to Wanda and tries to focus on the situation at hand. "Want to try another one?" She nods at him, raising her hands up. "Can you suck the smoke out of the building, and take care of the civilians?" he asks her.

She frowns as if she wants to protest against what she probably sees as babysitting. Steve knows she wants to go after Rumlow. He knows that feeling from the beginning of his own career, the need to distinguish yourself. To show what you can do. But she nods, raising her arms and the smoke is drawn away from the building and up towards the sky. She walks forward, directing coughing civilians to safer areas. The building starts to creak and crumble, and debris begins falling from the sky, iron beams crashing down until Wanda raises her arms, makes a gesture, and they fly away, harmless.

His estimation of her ability goes up. She can definitely follow orders, even when she doesn't want to, which means she might be more mature than he ever was.

"Steve, we have a situation up on level 12," Natasha's voice is calm and even despite the fact that she's probably pummeling bad guys in the face.

"Be right there," he says, nodding at Wanda, who grasps his meaning almost immediately. She grins, and he braces himself. He feels a tight tug, and then he's launched up and at the windows, just like they've been practicing. Thankfully her aim is getting better and he winds up on level 11, and not level 20 or 25.

He does a tuck and roll, assessing his surroundings and taking cover behind a pillar. This floor is mostly empty, and he proceeds with caution, sweeping each room carefully as he makes his way upstairs.

He crouches down and pauses on the stairwell, listening to the noises above. He can hear the sound of blows landing, but he doesn't hear gunfire. He wonders if this is it, if they've finally found Rumlow. After all these false leads what a relief it would be to cut off the trade in these illegal weapons. They could really save a lot of lives today ...

"Captain."

Steve nearly jumps out of his skin as the Vision phases into the stairwell right behind him. He stands up, breaking protocol, his heart racing. "What have we talked about?" he demands, seething with irritation from being startled in a field full of deadly hostiles.

The Vision frowns, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that they are in a building that is rapidly burning to the ground and which might be housing one of the world's most dangerous terrorists. "I heard Miss Romanova call for help. I deduced that I could be of better use to you inside of the building rather than without. Mr. Wilson seems quite capable of performing his duties on his own."

Steve is about to launch into his ten thousandth lecture about the importance of not sneaking up on someone and phasing through a wall during an active combat situation. Or any situation really. But a loud explosion above cuts off his words, and he launches himself up the stairs in his haste to get to Natasha. His heart is racing, and not in the way it normally does during a battle.

It's only been three or four minutes since her call for help, but he knows all too well what can happen in that short span of time. She could be dead, or maimed, or seriously injured or...

Or leaning casually against a desk filing her nails. There's a veritable pile of hostiles around her, and her foot rests casually on one guy's stomach. Steve wonders just what that one did to piss her off.

"Nice of you boys to join me," she says in a slow, sardonic voice. Her eyes are hooded, hidden behind the icy mask of a face she wears into battle.

"This does not appear to be a situation," the Vision says, walking in and looking around. His cape swirls around behind himself. Not for the first time Steve wonders what exactly it's made of. It certainly doesn't move like anything made on this earth. The Vision looks at Natasha, clearly confused. "Why did you call?"

"The situation is that, once again, Rumlow is not here," Natasha replies. "I interrogated this one," she pushes at the guy's chest again with her shoe. "Because he tried a pretty dirty trick on me. And I think he deserved it." The Vision doesn't reply, just looks around again at all the men lying on the floor and remains silent.

 _Smart man... er robot... er... whatever he is_ , Steve thinks to himself. His heart is still racing, and he wills it to slow down. Natasha is quite clearly fine. He tells it to himself over and over again, but his heart won't listen and keeps racing on.

"They were hired by Rumlow as a diversion from something," she continues, "something else he has planned. Something about a biological weapon that Rumlow wants."

"Did he give you a location?" Steve asks.

"Lagos, Nigeria."

Steve nods, "We'd better hustle."

He never imagines just how much of his life will change based on that one lead.

~

Afterwards he can't stop watching the news coverage. He isn't sure what exactly went wrong. Were they all just too exhausted? Did he push them too hard? They faced the same situation in Lagos that they had faced mere days before, and the scene had gone nearly the same way. Hostiles in play, a building full of civilians, and the same team. And yet the outcome had been incredibly different. 11 dead Wakandan civilians. The number weighs heavily on his heart, a tab added onto all of the other deaths he should have been able to prevent but was too weak to stop. His heart breaks the most for Wanda. This is her first real taste of failure and the accusations that inevitably follow.

It's been nearly a month now but the coverage of the event is still going strong as King T'Chaka appears on segment after segment with the same message. "Victory at the expense of the innocent is no victory at all." The idea of civilian casualties is not new to Steve. But this whirlwind of media coverage and the white hot spotlight definitely is. During the war very few civilians ever heard about what was going on at the front, and if they did, it was months later. And they hardly had a platform to respond to these types of tragedies like they did now.

He can't help but fall into a rabbit hole of message boards and twitter feeds, all questioning just what the point of the Avengers is anyway. Steve remembers the civilian casualties from the past war all too well. Back then it seemed like it was just accepted as a natural part of what war was, and a necessary evil if they were going to defeat fascism in Europe. He had always questioned that casual dismissal of the loss of human life. And now it seems like other people are struggling to define "acceptable loss," just as he's struggled with this question for most of his adult life.

The only problem is that people are only responding to part of the story. They don't see the good that Wanda has done up to this point. They don't mention that she's a child who was treated as a lab rat and mentally and physically abused by her captors. They don't even know the full story of what happened in Lagos. They just read a few simple sentences on the internet and respond without thinking.

When he finds Wanda in her room listening to yet more news coverage, he blames his distraction on Bucky. And in some respects that's true. Rumlow really had said "Bucky" and he had been a 16 year old boy again, yearning for the comfort of home and a familiar face. Steve worries constantly about Bucky. If he's safe, if he's hungry, if he's hurting, if he's struggling to survive. He feels responsible for what happened to him. If only he had done something differently on that train. If only he had been smarter, better, or faster, maybe they wouldn't be in this mess.

However what he doesn't mention is how distracted he had been by Natasha. She had responded when he said that Rumlow had a biological weapon. She had raced in just like he knew she would. And Rumlow had hurt her, shoved her in a tank and dropped a grenade in after. Steve had raced out to see her coughing, splayed out on the lawn like a gutted fish, and had barely raised his shield in time to deflect the grenade Rumlow launched right at him. It was almost as if Rumlow had known he would respond to her being in trouble. Like he had manipulated the entire event that way.

He had fought Rumlow then, running from the grenades launched after him, chasing him through the streets until the grisly end of the whole situation. From the attack on Natasha onwards, the entire fight had been on Rumlow's terms. He had found Steve's ultimate weaknesses, and he had pressed down on them - hard. He had driven them into an area heavy with civilians and then, distracted and off-balance, he had made himself into a human bomb. And because of Steve's mistakes, 11 Wakandans were now dead.

He longs to tell Wanda that it wasn't her fault. That if she hadn't been there, he likely would have been killed, and all the people around them too. When she shot Rumlow into the sky, it definitely saved his life. Or perhaps he could have survived that blast - but what about all the civilians around them? What would the blast radius have been? 11 people or more? Were those lives she saved more or less worthless than the 11 dead Wakandans? He wants to tell her that all these arguments are circular and that you can drown in the endless options of what could have happened if you had only done something differently. But if he can't even convince himself of that in his own mind, then how is he ever supposed to convince her?

Instead he tells her that if they can't learn how to deal with acceptable losses, then the next time maybe no one will get saved.  He tries to believe it as he says it. He can't help but wonder what their alternative was. Were they supposed to let Rumlow steal a biological weapon that could kill masses of civilians? Let him just walk out with it and cause havoc somewhere else?

General Ross seems to think so. He makes a huge speech about vigilantes, danger, and the mislaying of superheroes who he compares to nuclear weapons. He neglects to mention that his own actions have caused mass destruction. He tells them they will no longer be a private organization, that they'll have to operate with what he refers to as "supervision." Steve can't help but wonder who will be doing the supervising and how. Who watches the watchmen? He wants to ask it in Latin just to be an ass, but he bites back his words. He looks over at Stark, who returns his stare with atypical silence.

Next to him, Natasha asks what will happen if they disagree with their restrictions.  
  
"Then you retire," Ross says and walks out, leaving a wild storm of debate behind him.

Steve remains mostly quiet, letting Sam and Rhodey duke it out above his head as he reads over the Accords. After awhile the words begin to blur together. He knows he can't agree to this, no matter what anyone says. His eyes roam the room, falling onto Stark, who looks exhausted. He's laying down with a hand over his face, clearly harboring a headache or a hangover. Trouble with Pepper maybe?

When The Vision talks of his equation it dawns on him that Tony is being quiet because he's already made up his mind. Tony lays out his arguments, talks about oversight and restraint. Steve shoots back about personal freedom and choice. To his shock, Natasha agrees with Tony. A stab of betrayal slivers it's way into Steve's heart at her calculated pragmatism. Is that all he is to her, just another move on the chessboard? Maybe he doesn't know her at all.

That's when he gets the text about Peggy.

~

He holes up in his room, too exhausted to talk to anyone. He hears several knocks on his door, most of them light and tentative. The other Avengers clearly aren't sure if they should intrude or not.

He gets a text from Sam at roughly 7 PM:

 **Sam W:** Dinner ready downstairs if you want any .. don't worry I didn't make it

 **Steve R:** No thanks, I just want to be alone

The three dots appear that mean that Sam is typing. They appear and disappear then reappear again. Clearly he's torn about how to respond.

 **Sam W:** We're here for you, you don't have to go through this alone

 **Steve R:** I know that and I appreciate it

He pauses for a moment, then adds,

 **Steve R:** Just trying to get my head on straight for the funeral 

 **Sam W:** You know you're not going to that alone right?

Steve actually grins at that, a tortured laugh huffing out of him. He knows Sam means well, and he probably will appreciate someone being there. It's hard to imagine, Peggy's funeral. In his mind, it's only been a few years since she was a young, vibrant woman. And then he woke up here, in a future which felt so unreal to him that in the beginning he pinched himself at random intervals just to make sure that he wasn't dreaming. Sometimes he can't help but wonder if this is all really happening to him, or if this reality is some strange version of his personal heaven - or hell.

 **Sam W:** Bad timing though

...

 **Sam W:** Sorry that came out wrong

 **Steve R:** No worries

He borrows a phrase he's heard tossed around him before, trying to come off as lighthearted so that Sam will leave him alone.

 **Sam W:** You going to sign these papers Cap?

Steve pauses, noticing that Sam called him Cap and not Steve. He's asking in an official capacity he realizes, and decides to soften his knee-jerk response so that he has more time to think it over.

 **Steve R:** Still up in the air

 **Sam W:** I'm leaning on not

Steve sighs, knowing that no matter what Sam says, he will probably follow Steve's lead in the end. Even if Steve decides to sign the Accords. As will some of the others on the team, including Wanda. He's well aware of the weight his opinion carries. Sometimes it feels like the burden of his responsibility to the world is crushing him to death. He often wonders what his life would have been like if he had lived through the war. Would he and Peggy have gotten married? Would he have retired to some sort of mundane career? Worked as an accountant or a bee keeper? What a wild thought, Steve Rogers professional bee keeper.

He tries to remember what he wanted before he went into the ice. He has dim memories of his ambition to have a family, a normal life with a house and kids and a career that didn't involve shooting people or being shot at. But these days all of that has started feeling more like a dream. Now he isn't sure what he wants. Except perhaps to someday be left alone.

 **Steve R:** I need a few days to think it over

 **Sam W:** This is going to impact the Barnes situation

Steve takes in a breath, holds it, and releases it. Of course it will effect Bucky. Every string they tug lately seems tied to him somehow. He really needs to find some time to sit down with Stark and admit his suspicions about what happened to Stark's parents. It's just never been the right time, and he's worried about how Stark will respond. He wonders when he started keeping so many secrets. Life used to be so simple, once upon a time. Or maybe it's just rose-colored nostalgia that paints it that way.

 **Sam W:** Up for a run tomorrow morning before we hop a flight?

 **Sam W:** I'm going to leave you in the dust sucka

Steve laughs and types an affirmative, putting his phone down just as there's a loud beep and his door swings inward. Natasha walks into his room as if she belongs there, and shuts the door behind her.

"Memorized my password huh?" he asks her.

The passwords to all of their room are a simple swipe pattern, just like unlocking a phone. But it requires fingerprints.

She waves a hand at him, showing off silicone that probably has his fingerprints all over it. He figures he could drive himself crazy wondering when she acquired those.

"Never underestimate a super spy Rogers," she says, sauntering inside with an affected air of casual disinterest. A pallor hangs over his room as if death itself has come to visit. Dusk is falling outside, but he hasn't turned any lights on and the entire room is bathed in a sickly gray glow.

His personal space consists of a small living area with a couch, a small table in front of said couch, and a desk for writing. For some reason Stark gave him a large drafting table to serve as a desk, even though he hasn't drawn since he first came out of the ice. He has some bookshelves above his desk that are pretty much overflowing. He keeps reading in an effort to try to catch up and people are always giving him books and music and movies in an effort to try to help.

There's a door that leads from the living space into his bedroom, which pretty much just houses a bed and a closet. There's not much in there, and overall his rooms have a spartan, bare feeling to them. Even Natasha has more possessions than he does, which ought to seem sad but it's comforting to know that at anytime he could just pull up and leave. Just walk out the door and disappear... not that he's thought about it too much.

He sets his phone down on the desk, locking the screen, before turning back to Natasha, who is running her hands along the back of the couch. There's a good amount of space between them - him at the desk and her behind the back of the couch. They stare at each other in silence for several long moments.

It's weird that conversation seems to come so stilted and slowly between them when the sexual contact they have flows like a river. But maybe actions are easier than words. Steve sighs, staring down at his desk rather than at Natasha, whose face is gradually disappearing in the gathering darkness.

"Please don't tell me you're here to cheer me up," he says into the still air around them.

"Wouldn't dream of it," she says. She pauses for a beat and comes around the couch to stand closer to him. "I just came to say I'm sorry."

"Thanks."

It seems like he can't look at her. He's fiddling with his phone on the desk as if he's going to pick it up and use it. But he knows he's not going to, it's just an excuse to look down. To not look at someone's eyes and see pity there. The kind of pity Peggy looked at him with when she talked to him about Bucky, in that bar in Europe so very long ago.

She takes his free hand, the one that's hanging down at his side. "Steve," she says. Her message is clear, even without words. She wants him to look at her.

But he doesn't want to look, he can't handle it. He shuts his eyes.

He feels her lean in, shift upwards, and then just the soft press of her lips on his. She isn't demanding anything from him, she's just letting him know she's here. He imagines she must be standing on tip toe right now just to reach him.

"Would you like a distraction?" she asks, her hand resting itself on his chest. She's pulled back, but her mouth is still so near his own, and he decides to accept the invitation she has given so willingly.

His eyes are still shut, but he knows her body by heart now. He's mapped these curves and edges in the light and the darkness. He slides his arms around her waist, cupping her hips with his hands. And he leans down to return her kiss. Immediately it's like he can breath again, as if her breath is animating him and bringing him back to life. 

She surprises him by jumping up onto him and wrapping her legs around his waist. She perches above him, grinning down like the cat that got the cream. Her eyes aren't full of pity but desire, and he's grateful for the respite from talking, from thinking, and from trying to figure out what to do in response to the Accords, to Peggy's death, to everything. He walks into the bedroom, her clinging onto his front the entire way, kissing him and tugging on his hair. He's cut it short again, but she seems to delight in trying to mess it up anyway.

He drops her onto the bed, kissing her firmly and slowly as if he has all the time in the world. He wants to lose himself in her, and she seems to feel the same way, scooting up the bed so that he can lay above her. Both of them are still clothed, but they're grinding against each other like horny teenagers.

Night is truly falling now, and she is blurring into nothing more than an outline against the fading sunlight coming in through the window.

Her hair is getting long again, the vivid redness of it shining even in the dimness. He brushes it back as he kisses his way across her throat to her ears. She makes a noise low in her throat as his bites at her earlobe and then obediently lifts herself up when he tugs her pants and underwear off. The sight of her splayed out in front of him is mouth watering. He kisses her inner thighs, sucking marks there that no one but him will ever see. The smell of her is exciting, and he feels his cock harden in his pants, pressing up against the material in a way that's just this side of uncomfortable. But he ignores it, swiping his tongue across the entrance of her and up to her clitoris.

She gives a gasp, back arching up off the bed. She's still wearing her top, a tight black long-sleeved shirt. He wishes he had thought to take her top off, he's desperate to see all of her. He pulled back a bit in his effort to see more of her and she jerks his head back by his hair, pulling his face back where she wants him. He smiles against her skin, letting his tongue explore the most intimate parts of her. Her taste is sweet and musky and everything he's ever let himself dream of. Mostly Natasha controls their encounters, and he's glad to let her. But this act, him tracing his tongue over and around her, is one of his favorite things they do in bed together. When she relinquishes control and let's him take over and focus just on giving her pleasure. It's heady and exhilarating all at once and he's found the taste of her to be addictive. 

As are the noises she makes, the flush that creeps across her cheeks, and the way she throws her head back when she's truly enjoying herself. He's perfectly content to let her lay back and enjoy herself until she orgasms, but it seems like she has other plans. She sits up, tugging him well and truly by his head now, dragging him up to kiss her deeply. She traces her hands upwards and under the tight t-shirt he's wearing, stroking the bare skin of his stomach. He obligingly pulls the shirt up and over and tosses it to the side.

She grins upwards at him and that's all the warning he has before he's flipped him over and she's on top of him. It's like a magic trick how quickly she retakes control. He puts his hands up above his head as she pins his hands there. He leaves them there as she takes her shirt off, shortly followed by her bra.

He gazes up the length of her body in pure admiration. She's perfectly sculpted and beautiful, with heavy breasts and pert, pink nipples. He leans up to take one in his mouth, and she bends to let him, groaning with lust.

She shoves him back down, her skillful, practiced kisses turning sloppy and unfocused. Her mouth is open, and Steve's tongue is only too happy to explore the inside of her mouth. French kissing is a skill that he's working on. The first few times he had done it, he had nearly made Natasha gag. Now he's figuring out the tricks of it, becoming an expert in the art of pleasing her. Her skin is hot against his, the push of her breasts and nipples against him making his cock pulse in his pants.

He makes a noise of frustration and feels her lips curve against his. "Probably time to take those pants off, eh?" she teases him. She sits up on him, scooting back towards his knees, cupping him and tugging at his cock through his pants. He groans, pushing himself up towards her. She isn't soft or gentle with him at all, and he finds that the roughness of her drives him crazy. She slides open his belt, smiling at him with the promise of things to come. He forces down his desire to do it himself, forces down his eagerness to go faster. He wants to savor this and enjoy it, because somewhere in his mind the notion is unfurling that this will be the last time. And his intuition is singing to him that this has to end.

Each moment is like a snapshot that he wants to imprint on his brain so that he can't ever forget this night. The view of her sitting on his thighs, slowly undoing his belt buckle, rubbing at him through his pants. Sliding the head of his cock out of his pants and bending down to lick it briefly before swirling her tongue around him a way that makes him shake and feel like he's coming apart at the seams.

Then there's a sublimely awkward moment where she tries to get his pants off, and they do the weird shuffle of removing his clothes before she's back on top again. He hasn't quite perfected this art yet, and he supposes now he might never get a chance to do so. At least not with her.

Then she's back on top of him again, lowering her body onto his length. The feeling in his body is electric as she rides him, rising and lowering herself, readjusting as she needs. The sight and smell of her is enough to make him feel like he's losing control. He tries to hold himself back as long as he can, waiting for the moment he sees her orgasm building and rising. The flush in her face builds and builds, creeping across her face and down her body. He wonders if she's like this with everyone, if she lets other people see her lose control like this.

He can tell she's close when she stops smiling and performing for him and starts focusing on the angles of their bodies against each other. She pushes the length of him against herself insistently, gasping with her exertions. Her breathing turns harsh, and Steve prays that he'll last long enough to make her orgasm. He wants to come so badly, wants to bury himself in her and let himself go. His hands grip the bed sheets so harshly he's afraid he's going to tear them like newspaper. He's always so worried that something he'll do will hurt her. He's never quite sure of his own strength, and the last thing he wants to do is leave bruises on her by mistake.

A long gasp and then whiny needy noises begin to pour out of her as she nears her climax. He thinks he can hear her talking, low murmurs of "Steve" and "please" and "need."

"Yes," he gasps in her ear. "I'm going to come Natasha, fuck I'm going to come inside of you."

It's like her breathing stops for a second and he can feel the walls of her closing around him tight like a band. She gasps in his ear, her up and down thrusts losing focus. She gets her rhythm back after a second, kissing him harshly. He takes that as his cue, rising up a bit off the bed to meet her, feeling his balls draw up as he nears the end. He comes in a hot, wet rush, feeling lost in the moment, as if it's extending forever.

Eventually he crashes back down again, returning to consciousness to find her on top of him still, slipping his spent cock out of her. The sheets are wet and sticky and there's a smell in the air that would probably be disgusting if he could find it in himself to care about it. His hands loosen from their grip on the bed sheets, and he flexes them to get the feeling back. Natasha stays crouched on top of him, resting on his thighs like she was before, tracing small loopy patterns on his chest with her fingers.

She seems lost in thought, a small smile playing around the edges of her mouth. Steve shuts his eyes, feeling a sickness rise up inside of himself.

 _I'm in love with her,_ he realizes with a start. _Oh my God, I'm in love with her._

He knows now that his intuition was right. This has to end, and probably it never should have started in the first place. Or else the incident with Rumlow will just wind up repeating itself again. They can't be compromised in the field like that. It's too important. As he's perpetually discovering, his life is not his own to live.

 She looks down at him, and he can see a thought forming in her mind. Something important is boiling inside of her, overflowing and coming out. He fears that she's about to tell him she loves him too. "Steve there's something I have to tell you - "

Abruptly, he cuts her off, quickly, before he can lose his courage to vocalize the words he needs to say: "Natasha, this has to stop."

She stares at him in confusion, blinking. Maybe he was wrong about what she was about to say. He'll never know now he supposes. After this, she'll probably never trust him again.

"We can't," he gestures back and forth between them hopelessly. "We can't keep doing this. It's causing..." he struggles to find the words, biting back a lump in his throat. He feels like something is crawling inside of his stomach. "It's causing issues."

She opens her mouth and makes a noise as if to interrupt, but he cuts her off. "In Lagos... that issue with Rumlow. I said it was because of what he said about Bucky. But that's only half true. I was thinking about you too. I was worried about you, and it cost people their lives. It cost us Wanda's innocence. And it cost us our freedom. These Accords... everything that's happening right now. It's all my fault. I try to act like a free man, like my life is my own. But all of that ended when I accepted the super soldier serum. My life isn't my own anymore and neither are my choices."

She looks down at him and slowly he sees her mask descend again. The icy stillness settles in her eyes, and even though her body is warm on top of his he knows her mind has flown away to somewhere he can't reach.

He tries again, tries to make her understand, but all of his words ring hollow. "Please, you have to understand," he tells her. "I have to do the right thing. And this... this thing going on between us is compromising our entire team and putting people in danger."

She doesn't say anything, just slowly slides off of him, and starts putting her clothes on. Steve feels sick to his stomach. He's never been any good at words and now everything is coming out wrong. It's all wrong. The entire world is wrong.

Natasha doesn't even look back as she leaves, the door to his room swinging shut behind with barely a whisper. The sticky sheets below him are the only evidence that she was ever there at all.

~

Barely a day later they bury Peggy Carter. Steve is shocked to see Sharon at the service and even more shocked when he realizes that she's Peggy's niece. He looks up at her on the podium, trying to remember what it felt like when he had a crush on her, all those giddy feelings racing through him. It seems like a very long time ago.

He lingers at the church long after everyone else has left. Even Sam goes back to the hotel, letting Steve sit in a pew by himself and think. When Natasha walks in he almost thinks she's going to say something to him, beg him to rethink his stupid decision to end their relationship. Instead he winds up rambling on about how much Peggy meant to him. And then back to Avengers business and these damn Accords. She doesn't ask him to come back to her, she asks him to come sign the Accords. She says she wants the Avengers to stay together, but Steve can't sign, he can't compromise on these Accords, he can't compromise on anything it seems. He apologizes and calls her Nat, hoping that she knows that he's apologizing for so much more than just not being able to go to Vienna.

Finally Natasha hugs him tight, like everything is normal, and they are just friends again. Which he supposes they are. 

The words she says ring in his ears again and again and again, haunting him:

"I didn't want you to be alone."


End file.
